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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28546146">Werewolf Heart</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jollce/pseuds/jollce'>jollce</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Voltron: Legendary Defender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Alternate Universe - Western, Dark Shiro (Voltron), Historical Inaccuracy, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, No Voltron Lions, Nonbinary Pidge | Katie Holt, POV Outsider, Period-Typical Homophobia, Religious Discussion, Tags May Change, Werewolves, also brief its not his fault :(, briefly, brought up briefly but its there, im a history major i should be ashamed, im not sure if it garners the "graphic depictions of violence" warning but just in case!, pidge uses she/her though bc its the 1800s</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:27:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,419</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28546146</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jollce/pseuds/jollce</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Keith's lived in Arizona his whole life. His father always told him the desert wasn't what it seemed, but its been 20 years since he died and Keith still sees the same old Mojave. Sand and saguaro and the occasional yip of coyotes. Even rarer the howls of Mexican wolves in dwindling numbers.</p><p>But that's all just desert babble.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Keith/Shiro (Voltron)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Werewolf Heart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi there! This is not only my first Voltron fic, but the first one i've ever posted! Please let me know what you think by leaving Kudos and Comments :) Work title is from Werewolf Heart by Dead Man's Bones.</p><p>I'm not sure where this is gonna end up yet, I've got a vague sense of direction but nothing completely set in stone. Themes may get dark at times, but nothing more than fight scenes, and probably whatever trauma Keith has from being a closeted orphan in the 1800s. Rating doesn't apply atm but might change. Also were gonna ignore that Arizona wasn't officially a state until 1912 because this is ✨ fiction ✨</p><p>Last thing: I'm making a playlist for this series! Every chapter title will be from a song :) I'll add each song to the end of the chapter.</p><p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Townfolk’ve been saying something about demon sightings- best be careful out there son. They pull good men in and they never come out. It’s what devils do best.”</p><p>Indigo eyes flickered towards Reverend John over a broad shoulder, a small upturn of lips; a raised eyebrow. Thin, long fingers gently set down a glass of whiskey. It rippled softly and settled.</p><p>“Is that so?”</p><p>☽ ✧ ☾</p><p>It was unusually cold for the middle of March the first time Reverend John saw him. He and his horse looked worse for wear, showing up outside the weathered chapel doors in the dead of night. The freezing desert air nipped at any exposed bit of flesh it could, wind and sand beat against the wooden panelling. It groaned under the pressure, but stayed as steady as it always had.</p><p>The knock had come as a surprise. It was quite late, and the Reverend didn’t get many visitors on Saturdays. Most waited until Sunday Mass to bring their concerns.</p><p>Raising himself from the pews as gracefully as a man his age could, Reverend John grabbed the candle he was reading besides, letting it guide him towards the front of the chapel and the lanterns placed nearby. Letting the candle light the lantern, he made for the doors slowly, bones creaking almost as loudly as the wind outside.</p><p>The doors gave way with ease, strong and sturdy but not heavy. He peered outside, curious to find out who had come at such an hour.</p><p>It was a boy, thin but not scrawny, indigo eyes glinting in the light. He couldn’t be past his twenties; the Reverend hadn't himself felt the youthful invincibility in decades, but it oozed off the stranger in a way only young men could depend on. He was shivering, barely a coat to protect him from the harsh weather.</p><p>The boy held what remained of a mare’s reins in his shaking hands. It looked like they’d been cut, fraying at the ends, and tied hastily together in a short loop. Not long enough to ride, but enough to lead at least. Her chestnut pelt shown almost red in the light, the Reverend’s lantern glinting off the sweat and blood gathered along her withers and strong neck. Her eyes were white with fear, snorts of exhaustion and panic mingled together until they were indistinguishable. </p><p>He turned his lantern’s attention towards the boy, and grimaced. John was not unused to taking in travellers during the harsher months, and he knew many were not as foolish as to attack a man of God in the Lord’s house, but he had caught wind of bandits and murderers to the South, and a little caution went a long way.</p><p>This boy didn’t look like a bandit or a murderer, although he certainly was rough around the edges. His hair was quite a bit longer than many men would deem appropriate, and his bruised knuckles dripped wet with blood onto the wooden porch. A long, deep scratch on his cheek steadily oozed much the same, evidently the cause of the dark stains on the collar of his white shirt. Reverend John wasted only a beat before he ushered the young man towards the chapel doors, taking one side of the mare’s reins in his own hand.</p><p>“Get inside, son, the fire’s on. That wound needs to be looked at.” The boy looked close to protesting, bristling at the Reverend, leather from the reins creaking in his grip. Finally, his face softened and he let go before turning to the chapel and stepping inside.</p><p>“Thanks.” </p><p>☽ ✧ ☾</p><p>“So what was it? Barfight?” The Reverend took a seat next to the young man, wary of the stranger still, but knowing he couldn’t leave a wound bleeding so heavily to fester. The preacher wasn’t well versed in medical care, but he could at least wash the wound. He raised his hand towards the boy with a washcloth in his grip. The man grunted and moved away from Reverend John, eyes steely. </p><p>“I’m fine.”</p><p>The Reverend pursed his lips, “At least wash it. It doesn’t have to be me doing it.”</p><p>“Have you ever seen black wolves around here?”</p><p>The Reverend’s eyebrows furrowed at the non sequitur, annoyed at the blatant dismissal. Wolves were common, less so than coyotes, but he’d seen a few lingering along the town’s edge as humans steadily encroached on their territory.</p><p>“We have wolves sure, but not black. There are only Mexican wolves this far west.” He briefly wondered if the boy was new to Arizona, but the drawl was distinctive, and he tossed the thought away.</p><p>Humming, the dark haired stranger took the washcloth from the preacher and dropped it to his knuckles, gingerly wiping crusted blood away. Blood still dripped from his cheek, rivulets streaming down to cup his jaw.</p><p>“I’m not much to tell you what you should and shouldn’t do, but I’d appreciate it if you’d stop bloodying my floor.” The older man looked pointedly at the scratch. With a jolt, the hand with the washcloth was brought up to the pale boy’s face, as if he’d forgotten the wound was even there in the first place. He held the cloth up to the scratch, applying pressure. It needed to stop bleeding before it could be cleaned.</p><p>“Face wounds bleed a lot. It’s not deep.” The boy said quietly</p><p>“Speaking from experience?” </p><p>The boy huffed out a self deprecating laugh, gently prying the stained cloth away from his face. The wound was large and pronounced, resting against his cheekbone and narrowly missing his eye. It was, as he said, surprisingly shallow for how much it bled. “I guess so.”</p><p>The Reverend sat back against the pews. “Forgive me, I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Reverend John.”</p><p>“Keith.” </p><p>☽ ✧ ☾</p><p>Keith brought Rosie to a halt, sliding off her saddle and looping her reins around a nearby sturdy tree branch, letting her drink her fill as he surveyed the area. The desert was sparse, a death sentence for anyone or anything that didn’t know its ins and outs. Rivers like these were a haven to the fauna that made their homes in the dry Mojave. Drawing animals in to drink and nibble at the short grass that grew along the basin. </p><p>Keith took a simple snare from Rosies’s saddle bag and set it far enough away that the hare that bounded away at his arrival would think nothing of it when they returned. The river was normally a safe haven, a truce between prey and predator. Unfortunately for prey, not every predator was on the same page.</p><p>A hawk called overhead as Keith crouched in the dirt, leaning his back heavily against a tree and tilting his hat over his face as the sun beat down on his exposed flesh. He wasn’t starving, but he could definitely eat. Dried meats were stored in his shack, enough to stave off the bite of hunger, but the two hour trip to the river would be worthless without anything to bring back, and hare stew sounded amazing to his growling stomach. If he had enough time maybe he could stop by the town. The distance between it and his shack deterred him from going often, and most of what he needed was in the desert anyway.</p><p>Mind made up, Keith settled to take a short break as he waited for the snare to trigger, Keith closed his eyes and let the warmth of the sun and the slow movement of the river lull him to sleep.</p><p>☽ ✧ ☾</p><p>A fearful, high pitched whinny woke Keith with a start. Hat flying off, he pulled his limbs together and jumped to his feet, swaying as his vision blacked out for a moment. With open palms Keith began to cross the distance between himself and Rosie. Her front hoof was nervously stamping in the dirt, making a low noise. The sun had set, Keith noticed with a curse, and he had to use only the sound of her snorts and stomps to guide him towards her, hoping she wouldn't startle and kick back.</p><p>“Hey girl. It’s ok, it’s ok. What’s wrong?” Keith soothed in low tones. Running a hand down her face, he cooed at her again until she began to quiet. This close he could see the fear reflected in the whites of her eyes.</p><p>Squinting, he peered around as best he could for the source of the panic. Rosie gnawed at her bit, chewing nervously. She settled, but only slightly. Keith mollified her, running his hand over the white star of her forehead a few more times. </p><p>The desert air was cold against his exposed face, the wind tugging his hair away from his pale skin. Brushing a hand through his unruly hair, Keith turned away from Rosie. He needed to get back to the shack soon, but the trip had proved to be worthless and he wasn’t leaving with less than he came. </p><p>Crouching down near the gnarled bark of the tree he was sat up against only minutes prior, he let the light of the moon guide his eyes across the dirt, in search of the hat he’d flung away in his haste. </p><p>Sitting back on his heels, Keith huffed. The full moon was more helpful than if it had been a crescent, but still nowhere near the light of the sun. Frustrated, he groaned.</p><p>
  <i>Fuck.</i>
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    <i></i>
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</p><p>Without adequate light or superhuman vision, Keith clumsily stumbled across the dirt, keeping in mind the soft noise of the river at his left. </p><p>Normally the search would have been abandoned in favor of his growling stomach, but the hat had been his father’s, who’d passed away when Keith was only five. Keith held a grudging sentiment towards it, and despite not knowing his father long, kept it cared for and close.</p><p>The soft trill of a nightjar sounded across the basin, followed by the sharp yip-howl of a coyote in the distance. The sound was haunting and lonely, and Keith absently wondered if it was looking for a lost pack mate.</p><p>Rosie snorted behind him, and Keith took a moment to look towards the sky. His father had taught him the constellations, and apart from the hat, the knowledge was all he’d left behind. </p><p>Hot, angry tears began to build up behind his eyes, where he bit his lip to keep them from spilling down his cheeks. His fists shook, and Keith shouted, loud and impulsive up at the sky, a frustrated growl ripping past his lips. He wasn’t sure if his anger was at his father, for his demise, or his mother, for running away from her family, leaving him at the mercy of the desert for twenty years. Perhaps his anger was solely for himself, scared and alone. Canis Minor stared mockingly back at him, silent and judging.</p><p>Keith shook his head and crouched down again, eyes peeled for the dark leather of the hat among the dirt and sand.</p><p>A low, aggressive snarl sounded behind him, and Keith whipped his head around towards the brush. There, crouched against the dusty earth, was a hulking figure, black as night and more than a head taller than himself.</p><p>Rosie stamped behind him, neighing and tugging at her reins as the figure stalked towards Keith, who stood frozen in place. </p><p>The sharp glint of teeth, at least as long as a finger and twice as wide broke Keith out of his reverie, and he bolted towards the sound of Rosie, increasingly more frantic as time passed. </p><p>A growl was all Keith heard before his face met the ground, dust kicking up around him as he struggled against the bulk of the monster above him. Hot air and spittle blew against his ear, and Keith turned, kicking against fur. The monster, now with a clear view of its prey beneath it, held Keith’s face under its paw, claws digging into the soft flesh of his cheek.</p><p>A whine flew past the creature’s lips, and the pressure was removed temporarily as it’s weight shifted from a sharp boot kick to what Keith hoped was sensitive flesh. A sharp claw raked over his cheek as the beast brought it’s paw away in shock. Keith took the momentary distraction to fumble with his boot, frantically pulling his dagger out by the hilt and hissing when his spur cut across his palm.</p><p>The distraction lasted only a moment and the beast was back upon him, purple eyes glinting sharply and lips pulled back to show dark gums, wet with drool. Keith shouted and dove his dagger into the thing’s flesh, where it howled in pain and jolted. A blind swipe across it’s snout, and Keith was able to wiggle himself out from underneath it as it growled and whimpered. </p><p>The smell of blood permeated through the air. Keith’s boots pounded across the packed dirt as the creature stalked towards him again, snout oozing and twitching. He looked at the reins, still tied tightly against the tree to keep Rosie from bolting. Keith hesitated for only half a second before he was sawing through the leather. The black figure behind him was stalking still, toying with its prey, and Keith grunted as he finally cut the leather away from the bark.</p><p>Black fur was upon him once again, and with a shout Keith sliced down it’s shoulder, breathing heavily as the creature shifted backwards and growled, drool and blood running down its maw.</p><p>Using the precious time the beast took to recover, he leapt onto the saddle. Rosie reared up as the beast finally chose to strike, raking its large claws against her hindquarters. Keith gripped onto her mane, squeezing his legs around her body, and she let out a distressed noise and finally dropped.</p><p>The monster wobbled as it fell back to the ground, the wound on its shoulder bleeding thick and wet. Weight on the injured leg had it crashing to the ground within moments, crumpling with a low drawn out whine. </p><p>Keith carefully turned Rosie around, keeping an eye on the beast while he quickly checked over her hindquarters. Painful, but not a hindrance. Keith took one last look at the furred mound in the dirt, finally ripping his gaze away when he realized it wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.</p><p>
  <i>The desert isn’t always what it seems<i> his father’s voice echoed in his head, as he gripped Rosie’s mane and urged her into a gallop, the howls and pained snarls of the beast reverberating across the desert.</i></i>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So like I said, Arizona wasn't officially a state until 1912, so the mapping here isnt entirely accurate but thats fine. This fic is set somewhere in the Mojave Desert, and the river is probably the Colorado River, but it could also be a few other rivers, such as the Santa Maria River. I don't know! It doesn't really matter! But for the people who want some sort of idea, there you go.</p><p>Secondly as far as I'm aware Arizona doesn't really have many types of wolf species, so apologizes if black wolves DO exist in the desert, but for the sake of the story they're mostly up in the northwest (think Yellowstone.)</p><p>Lastly the chapter title is from The Devil Wears a Suit And Tie by Colter Wall. I'm sticking with Western, Folk, and Southern Gothic songs best I can. Let me know if you want me to make an actual playlist of all the songs I use and I will!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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